


low-tech

by boldly (techburst)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, days off mean sleeping in you weirdo, gladio hates alarms, no morning should start before the sun is up, teenagers that don't usually get to be teenagers, this is really just dumb fluff, young boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 07:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10531614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techburst/pseuds/boldly
Summary: nearly falling out of bed at four in the morning isnotthe most graceful way to wake up; or, the ballad of gladiolus amicitia and his hatred for alarms, especially when set by one ignis scientia





	

**Author's Note:**

> i literally had a dream about this. last night. decided it needed to be written out because the world needs more of teenagers being dumb. and cute. and dumb and cute at each other. 
> 
> for sooz, because she constantly encourages me to be ridiculous, especially when it comes to these nerds.

There are very few things that could wake one ( 1 ) Gladiolus Amicitia from a dead sleep. The smell of coffee brewing, more because he enjoys the aroma than the taste of it, because he's never quite managed to get the bitterness down to a manageable level despite dumping spoonfuls of sugar into a mug that ended up being two parts additives and one part _actual coffee._ ( It's an acquired taste, his father tells him, and he's inclined to believe it. ) His sister crawling into bed with him when she was much, much younger, because she had a nightmare and the safest place in the whole of the house was her big brother's room, because he never failed to go out of his way to check under the bed and in the closet for monsters, to assure her that he would stay awake even after she'd fallen asleep to make sure nothing crept up on them in the middle of the night. ( And because he would always tell her a story until she'd _actually_ fallen asleep, of a fearless knight and his many adventures, because she had never cared too much for princesses or anyone else that couldn't see fit to fight their way out of a paper bag. ) A rare muscle cramp resulting from having not stretched properly before a particularly vigorous workout, enough to have him pacing along the length of his bedroom until it worked itself out or he became a little bit numb to the pain. 

… The screeching alarm of one ( 1 ) Ignis Scientia's phone from the bedside table, at _four o'clock in the gods-damned morning_ , raising hell and the dead with it, and there are a few failed attempts at flailing in the general direction of the offending sound before fingers finally grasp the very edge of the phone, drag it closer and _closer_ until he can get a good grip on it. Swipe across the screen to silence the screech that still has his ears ringing even once silence has returned to the darkness of the room. _Grumble_ in the back of his throat as the slender form half-curled around him stretches, attempts to reach across him.

"You set an alarm?"  
"I set _several_ alarms on any given day," comes the murmured response, somewhere in the vicinity of the junction of neck and shoulder. "Depending on my own schedule, as well as Noct's —"  
" _You're off today._ We both are. Ever heard of a thing called sleepin' in?"

There's a small stretch of silence in which Gladio wonders if Ignis has somehow managed to drift back to sleep, fooled by the warm puffs of breath against his skin until the smallest shift of movement has the other attempting to reach for his phone again. "Good habits are born of routine, Gladio. Just because I 'have the day off' doesn't mean I don't still have other matters to attend to."

The snort that follows those words is one that has Ignis' eyes fluttering open, and Gladio can _just barely_ make out the furrowing of his brows as he lifts his head, chin propped against the curve of a shoulder. It's still dim — dim enough that untrained eyes would see nothing but the shift of shadows against a darker backdrop — but he catches the way the other's mouth pulls to the side, a half-frown that borders on something almost petulant as green eyes narrow. His bangs are mussed, side-swept and tousled in a way that makes him seem so much younger than his seventeen years, and a small bit of warmth spreads up from the bottom of Gladio's chest. Even as that reaching hand _continues to stretch_ toward the device still being held just out of his reach. 

It's those damnable long arms, you see. Sometimes, it pays to be heads taller than the rest of the boys your own age. Hell of a wingspan, perfect for holding defiant technology out of the reach of a nerd in desperate need of a break. 

"You have absolutely no respect for any agenda outside of your own, do you?" For all the words are given over in the most deadpan way possible, there's a teasing sort of lilt to end of the question, and Gladio can't help but to push in a little bit closer, tracing over the rise of a cheekbone with the very tip of his nose, the arm not outstretched in a blatant display of disregard for any aforementioned agenda curling around Ignis' back. Fingertips trailing over the edges of ribs beneath a thin t-shirt. ( That may, or may _not_ belong to the future shield of the King. ) 

"I've got respect. For a mornin' that doesn't start 'til the sun's up." A beat of a pause, and the smallest kiss to cheek. "'Specially when I've got good enough reason to stay in bed."  
"My _phone_ , Gladio." 

Oh, the rumble of laughter that comes for _that._ It begins somewhere at the bottom curve of Gladio's ribs, slithers up like something tangible between cartilage and bone, settling comfortably at the back of his tongue as he grins against warm skin, the cheek warmed by both the contact and _implication_ of that kiss. "Come get it, if you want it so bad."

( And what does one say to that, when one finds themselves at war with both the obligation of routine — something Ignis thrives on, _counts_ on in the face of everything else, because structure, _constants_ are the cornerstones of progress — and the increasingly magnetic pull of the one in bed next to him, warm and maddeningly comfortable for all his sharp edges, bone beneath defined muscle? 

Gladiolus Amicitia is a bad habit, he'd decided a while ago. A bad habit that distracts him from the file folders he takes away from council meetings, a bad habit that makes a place for himself in what had previously been Ignis' personal bubble, all easy smiles and surprisingly gentle hands that are far too adept at rubbing away the tension he carries in his shoulders and the back of his neck. _A bad habit_ that also, admittedly, reminds him when he needs to eat. When he's in danger of straining his eyes too badly when he's been staring at the same handful of pages for a half-hour or more, a reminder that he carries the burden of someone twice his age, and that it's _all right_ to take a moment here and there to forget some of his obligations, be they royal, personal or _social_ in the name taking a breath. In, and then out. To take a night every now and again to watch a couple of bad movies — the sort that the Amicitia children had been brought up on, full of action and adventure and the occasional explosion — or slip out to watch the stars through the thin veil of the Wall, as he'd done so many times as a child. To just _be_. 

Gladiolus Amicitia is a bad habit, but not one he has any intention of quitting. ) 

To say there was a bit of fumbling, legs getting tangled in sheets and perhaps the dig of an elbow against ribs would have been putting it a bit mildly, but the end result is the same; Ignis, on his back, pinned by the sheer weight of the other's body alone, Gladio's arms around his shoulders and his mouth curved upward into an absolutely _wicked_ grin. The phone is lost somewhere in the mess of linens, forgotten in favor of the kiss pressed against a mouth still trying to scowl, a small huff of indignation working its way up from the back of the royal advisor's throat, lost easily enough against the curl of a tongue well-practiced in silencing any protests. 

( It's a skill. What can he say. ) 

Gladio nuzzles beneath his chin, and unconsciously, Ignis tilts his head back with it. Allowing better access to the hollow of his throat and the mess of small, soft kisses left in a line all the way to the corner of his mouth, where he lingers. Hesitates. He can _feel_ that ridiculously endearing smile without having to see it, like something at the edges of his periphery that he's attuned himself to. Something he can _sense_ more than anything else. Still, that huff comes around again, even as fingertips skate over the back of the other's neck, into short-cropped hair. 

"You're not going to give up, are you?" There's something else to the question when he gives it, something that whispers _don't_ in the back of his mind. Something that wants to hear _no_ and to be pressed further into the mattress, to be held in those arms, cocooned away from the rest of the world that has a tendency to feel a little bit too real. ( Something selfish. Something that he'll only admit to himself, because there's no need to inflate the ego of an Amicitia unduly. ) 

"Not unless you're finally willin' to admit defeat." That last word is emphasized by a nip of teeth against his pulse. "C'mon, Iggy. You know you wanna stay here with me a _little_ longer." 

( He does. He _does_. Wrapped up and warm and safe and _cared for_ in the sort of way his day-to-day doesn't have a tendency to allow, because he spends so much of his own time caring for others. For their prince, and his well-being, and it's _selfish_ to want this so badly, because his purpose has always been meant for something _other_ than himself. Something more important. Something worth the attention, the care he puts into everything he does without so much as batting an eye. ) 

"I'll make your coffee just the way you like it. Half an hour." 

… _Well._ If there is one thing he's never been able to deny himself, it's a perfectly-brewed cup of what, more often than not, serves as his primary sustenance. ( That's his story, and he's sticking to it. Don't you say a _word._ ) 

"Twenty minutes," he finally agrees, with a slow exhale that ends in a purr as lips ghost over the point at which the collar of that thin t-shirt hides the warm skin beneath it. Teeth tug at it teasingly, and he thinks he might be in trouble. _You'll be the end of me._

But he also thinks he might not mind that much, and isn't that what counts?


End file.
